


We Can Be Heroes Just For One Day

by Trigonometrical



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Dom/sub, In Public, Kneeling, M/M, Overboard, Verbal Humiliation, hoo boy, implied Brian David Gilbert/Clayton Ashley, implied Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill, implied Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill/Clayton Ashley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: Set immediately following the Superfight episode of Overboard. // Clayton walks a circle around Pat’s kneeling body, pushes his fingers through Pat’s hair then steps into his previous position. “Personally, I thought your jokes were very good.” He pauses, waits for the soft,thank you, before continuing. “You’re funny. You can get a laugh out of someone, easy. So I don’t know why you needed the validation from me.”Pat bites his lip, flicks his gaze up to Clayton’s face. “I, um—I like when you’re behind the camera. Filming us.”





	We Can Be Heroes Just For One Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [jeepers creepers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076320) by Anonymous. 



> Oops, my hands slipped.
> 
> Written quickly, posted quickly. Standard RPF rules apply: If you're in it or know someone who's in it, just don't.
> 
> Title is from "Heroes" by David Bowie.
> 
> EDIT 7/7: Wow I just figured out how you can add that a work is inspired by another work. Thank you, fish, for the Clayton-spiration!

Jacob has to leave the second they finish filming Superfight for Overboard, which means Simone ushers him out of the Vox lounge while talking about the release schedule and press junkets and some other celebrity-related front end stuff that Clayton doesn’t catch. Clayton doesn’t need to pay attention to most of that, fortunately, so he doesn’t. Instead, he untangles a knot in the eighth-inch cable before rolling it up into their camcorder case. They won’t need to film anything with that camcorder for a while, so he wants to do future-Clayton a favor and leave himself a tidy workspace.

Brian and Pat are still at the table bickering—like an old married couple, Clayton’s brain supplies—about lava T-Rex versus Sherlock Holmes. He can just make out snippets, Brian’s, _okay but if that’s the case then lava T-Rex could parachute out of_ his _jet and melt through the cockpit of the_ other _jet, causing them_ both _to fall into the sea_ ; and Pat’s, _counterpoint: how does that fucking help the T-Rex?_

And, since they’re not doing anything particularly important—

“Pat, let’s discuss how we’re going to edit this video.”

Both of their heads shoot up like they’d been caught making out, which honestly, Clayton doesn’t doubt that this was some sort of pre-foreplay for them. The weirdos.

“Simone probably needs a hand out there. Why don’t you help her, Brian?” Clayton adds. It’s phrased as a question, but it’s really not, and Clayton is relieved to see that neither Brian nor Pat take it as such.

Pat goes unnaturally still at the words, but Brian vibrates with energy, a sly grin pulling up the corners of his mustache. Brian hops off his green chair and kisses Pat on the cheek then saunters over to Clayton and kisses _him_ on the other cheek. His mustache tickles. “Get some good work done,” he says, but Clayton doesn’t take his eyes off Pat as Brian steps out the door 

They have the Vox lounge reserved for another thirty minutes for filming. Clayton knows this, and Pat knows Clayton knows this. But that’s plenty of time. “I was thinking that you could make some illustrations for this episode,” Clayton says. “I think that’d be pretty sweet.”

Pat just blinks, startled for a moment, but then he laughs self-consciously and rubs the back of his neck. “Ah—yeah, yes. I can do that.”

“A Conan to start, obviously,” Clayton says as he walks toward the boom mic. “It could have a sword to start, and then—”

“And then like,” Pat jumps in, flipping his hair, “in one frame, just switch to his hands on his hips. And he’s all grumpy and shit.” He stands up to help, just as Clayton knew he would, and works on disassembling their shitty portable light. His shirtsleeves are rolled just enough that Clayton can see his muscles flexing as he works. It’s artistic. Well-composed.

“Definitely all of the mummies too,” Clayton says. “And the jets?”

“I don’t know if I could do a jet,” Pat says. He almost drops the bulb, but catches it with an _oop_. “I’ve pretty much only drawn Sonic fanart and like, some furry fetish art for my friends since getting my tablet.”

“Hmm. We could still make it work,” Clayton says. They lapse into silence while packing the rest of the equipment, until everything rests in a neat pile by the door and Pat and Clayton are alone in the center of the room.

Pat clears his throat and looks somewhere to the left of Clayton’s eyes. “Was there, um, something else you wanted?” Pat asks.

“I was hoping you’d tell me what you wanted, actually.” Clayton says. Precise. Slow. Neutral.

Pat furrows his brow. “Huh?”

Clayton _tsks_. “You looked at me every five minutes, Patrick. I can cut around some of it, or make jokes in post-production, but there was quite a lot.”

Pat fidgets and pulls at his clothes like they’re too tight. “Oh, sorry dude,” he says. “I've been kind of scattered today, but I didn’t mean to make bad video. I can—”

“I wasn’t finished speaking.”

Pat’s mouth snaps shut with an audible noise. His eyes are so wide behind his glasses, the definition of blinking owlishly.

“Every time you told a joke, you’d look over at me to see if I was laughing,” Clayton says. “Like you were _performing_ for me. And you kept sneaking glances when everyone else wasn’t paying attention. What did you need?” 

“I—”

“Did you need to know I was watching? Need me to confirm you were doing a good job?"

Pat closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. “Was I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Depends on who you ask,” Clayton says calmly. “Brian kept trying to get your attention during the last round. But you were too busy staring at me to even acknowledge your little slut, who would have dropped on his knees under the table for you if you’d so much as looked at him.”

Pat is panting now, his mouth open and dry. “I didn’t know,” he says.

“And you _did_ have the fewest points,” Clayton adds, breezing over Pat's comment. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping for better from you.”

Pat’s knees buckle like he’s about to drop into a kneel, but Clayton grips him by the forearm hard enough to keep him standing.

“No reason to aggravate your knees,” Clayton says. He grabs the black-and-white pillow and places it on the floor. Pat kneels more gingerly, then, folds himself down on top of the pillow. Keeps his head bowed, arms behind his back, hands clasped together. 

“Good boy,” Clayton says, and Pat sags in relief. A huge rush of air leaves his lungs. Pat takes a moment to steady himself before he straightens up into position, eyes still downcast.

Clayton walks a circle around Pat’s body, pushes his fingers through Pat’s hair for a moment then steps into his previous position. “Personally, I thought your jokes were very good.” He pauses, waits for the soft, _thank you_ , before continuing. “You’re funny. You can get a laugh out of someone, easy. So I don’t know why you needed the validation from me.”

Pat bites his lip, flicks his gaze up to Clayton’s face. “I, um—I like when you’re behind the camera. Filming us.”

“All of you?”

“Me. Filming me.”

“ _Watching_ you,” Clayton corrects.

“Yes,” Pat agrees as he looks down again. “Watching me.”

“Why?”

Pat shifts his weight from one knee to the other. The pillow probably isn’t comfortable, but it’s certainly better than the floor, and it’s the best Clayton could find on short notice. “I like having your attention,” Pat says finally. “You’re always so—direct. Focused. When we share a look around the camera lens, I—I like that I’m the subject of that attention. That you chose to look at me.”

Clayton hums in acknowledgement. Pulls out one of the chairs so it’s about five feet away from Pat’s body. Sits and spreads his thighs to take the pressure off of his bad leg. His cock is hard, but not terribly so, not enough to do anything about it. “I’m looking at you now.”

Pat fidgets. His eyes dart around the room as if looking for clues before he settles on Clayton’s face. “What should I—?”

“You have my attention,” Clayton interrupts. “Don’t waste it.”

Pat jerks into action, moves his arms forward shakily to the front so he can work down his fly. It’s an incredible shot: Pat on his knees, looking so flushed and so guilty as he pulls out his dick. Pat closes his eyes, but Clayton barks, “Eyes on me,” and Pat snaps them open again. He waits a moment for instructions, but Clayton is ever the silent cameraman—only occasionally heard and even more rarely seen—and Pat breathes shakily as he strokes his cock.

Clayton’s getting harder now but he doesn’t move to touch himself, keeps his focus on Pat’s body, his eyes, his hair, the sweat glistening at his temples. Pat isn’t making it a _show_ per se, but he’s not rushing either, instinctively knowing that he needs to take his damn time. It’s incredibly arousing. He’s whining as he fucks into his fist, as his hips rock back and forth in tiny almost-aborted movements.

“I bet we could stay in here longer than thirty minutes,” Clayton muses. “There probably isn’t anyone else scheduled today. How much of my attention did you say you needed, again?”

Pat lets out a wordless cry, then bites his bottom lip to muffle any more sound. His cock is flushed and straining and beautiful, and Clayton takes pity on him because Clayton truly is the best in the biz.

“You did a great job in this episode, Pat,” Clayton says, leaning back in the chair. “I loved it.”

Pat comes almost immediately, biting down on the knuckles of one hand to stay quiet while his other strips his cock faster and faster. He closes his eyes when he comes, and Clayton lets him have some time to collect himself.

Just enough time for Clayton to stand up and thread his fingers through Pat’s hair again. To pull Pat up to his wobbly feet. To grab Pat’s jaw and say, “Take that pillow home and wash it. Don’t leave it for the cleaning crew.”

To hear Pat’s soft, _yessir_.

To release Pat’s jaw.

To nod and add, “Practice drawing jets, Patrick. Don’t sell yourself short.”

To grab the camera equipment and head out of the room.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [hold my Steadicam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851948) by [greenonions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenonions/pseuds/greenonions)




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